


Blue, Blue, Yellow

by starrelia



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Bleeding, Cisgender, Consensual Violence, Cutting, Dubious Consent Fantasy, Ear Gore, Gore, Gun Violence, M/M, Self-Harm, Violence, Vomiting, carving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-06-10 09:17:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6950281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrelia/pseuds/starrelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's always been Rhys's dream to be hurt. Not hurt in the way that everyone expects - painplay or masochism of the normal kind, and whatnot - but in a way that only a monster can give.</p><p>Handsome Jack is a monster, and more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is safe and free of like, anything which is why there are no warnings right now.
> 
> I wanna write gore eventually.
> 
> I **will** without a doubt list out ALL the warnings in the author's tag should I write anything. I want this fic to be short and not to drag on for too long, but I've wanted to write this for a while and I'm in the mood for taking it slow and writing out chapters instead of shoving out 10K word fics that will not be looked at.
> 
> Explicit rating is there for future chapters.

He opens his eyes slowly, gaze blurry and eyes wet with tears that he has yet to shed. Squinting, Rhys tries to adjust to the light above him before he rubs his eyes with his flesh palm. He exhales, heavy and tired, and Rhys runs his hand through his wet hair. _‘Ugh, gross,’_ he thinks when he realises his hair is squishy and sticky and he sits up as best he can in his little bathtub.

There’s an ache that spreads throughout his limbs the moment he moves and Rhys groans when the ache settles in his stomach, heavy and hot and uncomfortable, and he shifts and ignores the blood gathering at his cock. His leg hangs over the edge of the bathtub and Rhys works on moving it back into his the little thing.

He sits with his legs drawn up and his cock slowly hardening, arousal settling in the pits of his stomach, and Rhys flinches at the sight in between his legs.

“Shit.” Rhys sighs. “Gotta—gotta clean up ‘fore Vaughn gets here.” He murmurs as he grabs the edge of the tub and forces himself to stand up on shaky legs. His entire body feels heavy, eyelids especially so, and Rhys can’t sleep until he cleans the bathtub and bathroom up.

His feet leave behind bloody footsteps in the bathroom and Rhys grabs several [many] disposable towels to be able to clean up the mess he has left behind.

There’s blood all on the floors of the bathtub, luckily not yet dried, and Rhys turns the hot water on to try and scrub the blood off with a bit more ease as he attempts to clean up. He’s gotten far too used to cleaning up the blood after himself and Rhys grabs at the disposable razor, wipes it clean, and throws it away in the trash.

On his body, there are absolutely no scars. He picks up the knife that he dropped from next to the bathtub, cleans that as best he can as well, and then bundles up the towels to burn.

It’s a routine at this point, and a routine that Vaughn and Yvette absolutely _cannot_ know. He daintily places the knife back in its place and gets to burning the towels, opens the windows and sprays air freshener so that the smell is gone, and when Rhys makes his rounds he smiles when he sees that his bathroom is clean with barely a speck of blood.

That will definitely keep Vaughn from worrying. He stretches his arms, groans, and leans side to side as he tries to get rid of any soreness in his body. He doesn’t know how long he has been out; probably not all that long, thankfully, and Rhys runs his hands through his hair and exhales.

 _‘Next time,’_ Rhys thinks, ‘ _don’t hurt yourself until you pass out.’_ Thankfully, his erection has died down after all the cleaning up he has had to do, and Rhys makes his way back to his bedroom to work on a few many things he has left behind.

Reports, mostly. A few messy codes that Vasquez has convinced Henderson to shove onto him. A lot of things that Rhys shouldn’t care about, but has to for reasons he is far too aware of. He looks up at the posters of Handsome Jack and smiles as he sits down to work, fingers twirling his Hyperion issued Handsome Jack pen, and he bites his lower lip in an attempt not to smile.

How wonderful would it be if Handsome Jack decides to hurt him?

It’s an awful fantasy to think of, but Rhys closes his eyes and considers it far too often.

* * *

On the days that Rhys hears Handsome Jack is dropping by for a ‘visit’, he tenses up and hopes beyond hope that he manages to anger Jack somehow. That’ll mean he’ll try to kill him. That’ll mean Jack will try and want him gone and dead.

It’s very rare that Jack’ll come to where Rhys, Yvette and Vaughn are; something about their departments not being important enough, or rarely doing something to piss Jack off. Rhys doesn’t know _why_ he doesn’t visit, but he only knows that he _doesn’t._

Then, one day, Yvette tells him something that brightens up his day like nothing else. She’s uncomfortable, fidgeting, and Vaughn looks at her with one raised eyebrow. “Yo, ‘vette, you okay there? Need to… go to the bathroom or-?” he asks, and Yvette glares at him. “Okay! Okay. No bathroom. Something wrong?”

“Jack’s coming to Rhys’s floor.” Yvette says and he tries to keep his excitement at bay when he hears that. He looks up at Yvette, eyes wide and shining and she exhales through her nose. “Someone here fucked up—I’m placing my bets on Assquez. Anyway, someone here fucked up really bad, and Jack’s in an _awful_ mood. I heard that he’s gonna go down there after lunch break is over so that he can make an example of Vasquez.”

Rhys tilts his head to the side. “I’m just sayin’—Rhys? Be careful, okay? I don’t wanna hear that Jack killed you because you fanboyed too hard.”

He scoffs. “Ugh, _Yvette,_ like I’d let myself die that easily.”

_‘I can’t, anyway.’_

She rolls her eyes and arches an eyebrow. “I never know with you, Rhys. Remember that time you just collapsed because you drank poisoned coffee?”

“ _Don’t_ remind me!”

“That must’ve been one shitty poison, though.” Vaughn comments. “Were they gonna use it to kill Jack, or something?”

Rhys swallows. “No, I think they just wanted to make someone shit their self in the middle of a meeting or something. It made me have a tummy ache real bad.”

Vaughn shrugs. “Whatever, dude. As long as you’re okay, I guess.” But they both stare at him for a bit, and Rhys grins sheepishly. “Seriously, you worry me waaaay too often for that to be natural. I don’t think anyone should worry _that much_ for _one guy.”_

“He has a point, Rhys.” Yvette says and Rhys glares at her. She brings her hands up and shrugs. “Just sayin’.” She says, again, before she goes back to trying to steal bits and pieces of Vaughn’s food and Rhys tunes out their mock-arguing.

 

Jack is going to come to his department floor today.

 

Maybe Rhys should spill hot coffee on him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Strangulation, and neck snapping.

He stares at his computer, then over to the elevator in which Jack will hopefully – eventually – exit from. He still has yet to come on over, to come and scare all the assholes that work on this damn floor. Vasquez is pacing around on the floor, wringing his hands together and looking every bit nervous that Rhys is happy to see him be.

Butterflies flutter in his own stomach, just like everyone else on this floor, but his anxiety and excitement doesn’t stem at all from the fear of being hurt, or killed [not like he can die; which… really sucks, when you think about it, but Rhys isn’t going to think about it that much]. No, not at all- death can’t get him, and Rhys looks at the coffee that’s sitting on his table. It’s hot still, though Rhys thinks it isn’t going to be for long if Jack – _Handsome Jack, murderer, genocidal maniac, egomaniac_ – doesn’t appear here any time soon.

Perhaps it’s just a lie? Perhaps he only said that he’s going to come on over to—

“Alright sheeple! Where the hell is he!?” Jack’s booming voice practically echo throughout Rhys’s floor and he sits up, abrupt, and he makes sure that not one bit of the coffee has spilt on his desk. When he peers around, he catches sight of Vasquez fleeing from sight and Rhys tries not to laugh to bring attention on himself _just_ yet.

“I’m not gonna ask _again.”_ Jack yells out and Rhys leans out of his cubicle to take in the way he stalks through the crowded floor. He watches as Jack grabs someone who tries to scatter and get away, watches him twist his neck and kill him – effortlessly, without even blinking – and Rhys’s mouth suddenly feels abnormally dry.

The body falls, a crumbled heap of a once living being, and Rhys only watches and takes in the way Jack yells and drags people out of their cubicle. He’s an abnormally large man – larger than life, larger than everything else around him, large in size and more – and his hand wraps around throats easily as Jack drags them out.

There’s a snarl on his face, something wild in his eyes as he hisses and growls out demands, becoming more and more commanding and angry as no one seems capable of giving Jack the person he wants – the one who _horribly_ fucked something up, because their CEO only gets this angry when someone has ruined something to do with his vaults or more - and Rhys tries not to smile when he thinks about how he can kill Vasquez off like this.

But that isn’t what Rhys wants, and he’s more than capable of getting what he wants… even if that means freaking Yvette and Vaughn out because they don’t _know._ They don’t know a single damn thing, and Rhys should care.

[He doesn’t and he hasn’t for a long time; so what if they’ll gag and vomit when they learn Rhys wants to get hurt? It doesn’t matter to him, because he has done enough vomiting on his own on his own time.]

Rhys grabs at the coffee cup, takes a sip and flinches when he burns his tongue on the hot, hot drink. He waits for Jack to pass by his cubicle, the screams and panicked chatter dulling out in the back of Rhys’s head as he waits and waits for his boss to get here, his footsteps far too loud but not loud enough.

Jack’ll look good in heels, Rhys thinks, and he almost wishes that he is the man’s actual lover so that he can convince him to wear boots or hells. Then they can click and clack on the ground, a beautiful melodic sound Rhys is sure, and terrify people with the fact that Jack is _nothing_ but pure power.

But for now, he only has to settle with the simple sneakers that Jack wears. (In his dreams, he’s able to be domestic with Jack; ask him to wear the shoes he likes, the clothes he finds beautiful, and finally gets to see what is under the mask.)

Louder and louder; the footsteps reverberate in his head, eyes focusing on the steam that rises out of the coffee in the cup. He looks over his shoulder, spins his chair around, and waits, waits, and waits until he finally catches sight of Jack’s hand on the very frame into his cubicle.

He takes one step forward and Rhys grabs at the cup when he sees Jack’s head. “Alright, kiddo, I’ve heard you’re _very_ well acquainted with wallethead so you-“ Jack says, but before he can finish his sentence Rhys splashes the coffee at him.

The digistructed mask glitches out as the hot liquid smacks against his face, and an unearthly shriek of surprise escapes Jack’s lips from the horribly hot liquid. It’s not that hot, not enough to give him third degree burns [eighty two to eight-eight degrees Celsius will do that, but it’s hot enough to skirt along the edges of second degree if Rhys is smart enough.

“Wh—what the _hell!?”_ Jack continues to shriek, his eyes wide and staring at Rhys with bloody murder in them, and he can only smile at the rage and hatred that radiates off of his boss in absolute _waves._ “Are you _friggin’ crazy?!_ The hell is wrong with you!? Oh, you even have the freaking balls to smile about it, you steaming bag of crap!”

He stomps over to Rhys, gets to him within simple, easy and long strides and his breath hitches as Jack grabs the front of his shirt and yanks him up. “ _Answer me!_ What the freaking hell is wrong with you, huh?!” he slams Rhys against the wall and it feels like his entire body is rattling, teeth chattering against each other and he stares wide-eyed into Jack’s eyes.

The mask is still glitching.

“You think it’s _funny?”_ Jack hisses out when a shaky smile spreads across Rhys’s lips. “Tell me, do you think it’s funny?”

Rhys shakes his head. “Nope, not at all, sir.” Rhys exhales, his voice breathy and adoring, and something in Jack’s face twitches. “At least your burns are hidden!”

The collective intake of breath from everyone being an unfortunate witness to this is enough to remind Rhys that this _is_ real. If this is a dream then he’s sure that everyone else will have faded away, turning into a blackness that surrounds him and Jack as the other man _breaks_ him.

They’re not there yet, but they will be—Rhys is sure. Rhys is _absolutely_ sure. After all, Jack isn’t a good person. Even he is aware of that about his hero.

Speaking of Jack – his eyes flash with anger and he bares his teeth, snarling again, and whatever anger he has had towards Vasquez has completely morphed into contempt and hatred for Rhys and the excitement in him bubbles and grows worse. “Oh, you smart little shit.” Jack spits out and he yanks Rhys close, their breaths mingling and he feels awfully small beneath the man. “I wonder how smart you’ll be when you’re out floating in the vastness of space, huh?”

… that, actually, does sound unpleasantness. He can’t die, so being in space will be an infinite loop of dying and coming back to life that will never end and will _never_ let him do anything else. Besides; space isn’t where he want to be. Trying not to glare at the man, Rhys exhales and inhales, relaxes, and finally smiles.

“Well,” Rhys starts, a song in his voice, “if you want to kill me that way, go for it, sir. I mean, I don’t think you’re a coward, but airlocking someone is super cowardly if you ask me.” He can practically hear Yvette’s screaming in the back of his head, demanding to know what he’s _doing,_ because this is a bad idea, this will kill him, this will – “But it isn’t my place to question you, Handsome Jack sir!”

Everything goes completely silent. Even Jack jerks back, surprise clearly writ on his face and Rhys feels absolutely proud of himself for being able to shock his hero this much. The panic in the air is palpable, wrapping around his wrists and ankles and sinking into his throat, and Rhys shudders.

“What. Did. You. Say?!” Jack demands, his voice low and threatening in a way that makes Rhys gasp in glee. “Did you call me a coward, cupcake?” his voice is awfully husky and deep and Rhys’s heart hammers in his chest. Rhys opens his mouth to give some sort of response, something to make Jack angrier, but there are hands wrapping around his throat and slamming him against the wall of his cubicle. “You know, you’re right. Airlocking is _too good_ and merciful for a little shit like you.”

Jack’s grip on his throat is painfully tight, squeezing hard enough to actually break his neck, and his pulse quickens and the excitement thrums and runs through his veins and arteries like an awful, addictive drug. “I’m going to break your neck, pumpkin.” Jack purrs, arousal thick in his own voice, and Rhys cheers inwardly.

Rhys is right! _‘I knew it!’_ he thinks, delirious as his oxygen is cut from him and as breathing becomes more and more of a Herculean task. The edges of his sight are becoming black and dark, throbbing and pulsing as Rhys struggles to get oxygen into his lungs. The hands squeezing his throat get tighter, tighter and tighter until—

A disgusting, snapping crack echoes in the back of Rhys’s head and the pain stings and pricks him like millions of needles digging into his heart. He goes slack, his eyes wide and mouth gaping open, and he stares into Jack’s stunned gaze with a hunger that feels insatiable. Already, for whatever horrible reason that he has been cursed, Rhys can feel his neck healing.

It’s a slow process, a grinding that makes Rhys shiver and let out an awfully pathetic groan, and Jack lets him go without warning and allows him to fall, unceremoniously, to the ground. Despite the awful pain in his throat, Rhys manages to swallow in a desperate amount of air to get his lungs working again.

“You’re not dead.” Jack whispers, voice thick with something that Rhys can’t recognise, and he looks up at him with wide, glossy eyes. “Holy shit. I broke your neck.” Jack hisses out, quiet so that only Rhys can hear – as though he’s sharing a secret with him – and he gives him a shaky, wide grin.

The CEO steps back and Rhys looks away, not wanting to let Jack see how _desperate_ he is for the man to take him away. What if the desperation keeps Jack from coming to him again because he’s a creep? … but then again, isn’t he already a creep for making Jack snap his neck only to realise he can’t die?

“You.” Jack breathes out. “I’m coming for you soon, cupcake, and you _better_ not leave, or you won’t like what happens.” And, just like that, Jack is gone and Rhys is left heaving and gasping as his body attempts to repair itself. There’s a sudden cacophony of panic and fear once Jack has left, loader bots being called in to drag the bodies away and Rhys wants to laugh.

He swallows the joyous sound that clogs his throat and stands up on shaky legs, knowing that he will definitely have to deal with Yvette and Vaughn once this is all over. After all, rumours spread quickly in Helios and this is going to be a _definite_ topic of discussion.

Rhys can hear it now; _did you hear about the jackass that insulted Handsome Jack!? He actually got attacked… and lived! Can you believe that?_ or maybe it’ll be more outrageous than what Rhys has in mind.

Whatever it is, he knows that Yvette and Vaughn are gonna be up his ass, screaming about how reckless he was, and Rhys is going to have to try his hardest not to smile at the thought that he _definitely_ has Jack’s interest now.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Hey, yo, Meg!” Jack calls out as he strides his way over to his office, his secretary looking up at him with nervous eyes and she wrings her hands together, anxiety oozing out of her. “Stop it with the scared puppy act sweetheart, you know I don’t like that. You don’t want to be pissed off, do ya?”

Her eyes widen. “N-no sir! Absolutely not, sir; I only want to see you _happy!_ Or as. Happy as you can be, sir, with all the work you have.” She says, the words tripping out of her, and Jack snorts. “Well, sir, what do you need me to do, sir? I’m… sorry for saying sir, so often. Siii—sorry.”

He waves it off. “Whatever Meg, stop talking. See, I need you to do me a favour. You’re good with favours, right, Meggie? Yeah, yeah, you are. Always call you on them, don’t I? Atata-“ Jack raises his hand the moment she opens her mouth. “No talking. Let daddy finish talking, alright? Today, I ran into an asshole that insulted the hell outta me.”

Meg looks at him nervously from the corner of her eyes, watches him pace around her desk with a big, toothy grin on his face and Jack tries not to laugh. “He didn’t even try to run away. He acted all – all proud and _brave_ as he spat insults right into my face! Called me a coward, Meg, can you believe that? Anyway… I need you to _find him_ for me.”

“Of course sir!” Meg tenses up, her back ramrod straight and Jack hums, pleased. “May I – may I have a description of what he looks like?”

“Brown hair. Tall, very leggy. Cybernetic arm, ECHOeye, has a port too. The kid has all the nice little upgrades that daddy gives to his peons. We don’t have that many who have all three upgrades, right?”

“Only ten people, sir.”

“Anyway, as I was saying. Got all the upgrades, brown hair, brown eye, tall, leggy… be a good girl, Meg, _and find him for me._ I don’t want to kill him, ohhhoo no. He did something that no one else on this space ship can.”

“Insult you, sir?”

“No, even better. I want him. And I’m gonna keep him.” He flashes pearly whites at Meg and she shrinks into her seat. “Like my own personal little pet. Did you get that, sweetheart? I’m gonna keep him once you find him for me.”

Meg nods, her heart hammering in her chest. “I’ll—I’ll do my best, sir. I’ll find him and give you everything I have on him. Absolutely everything, I will not leave anything out.”

Jack laughs. “That’s a good girl. Now, don’t bother me at all tomorrow or the rest of the day today, I’m taking Angel out to eat. Good luck, Meg! And if you don’t find him at all, I’ll gut  you and use you as my new wallpaper! Buh-bye!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** a gun is used here, and I think graphic depictions of pain is described here. Not gore itself, but just pain. Jack is not a good person.

Despite Jack’s vocal interest in him – and Rhys clings onto that interest like a hopeless lover, hoping for it to mean something, hoping that it isn’t Jack playing with him and forgetting about him – and his promise, Rhys doesn’t see him for days. A week, at most, and the rumours of how Rhys has managed to survive Jack trying to kill him is still the talk of Helios. A lot of people give Rhys a wide berth, staring at him like he has grown ten heads and that he’s a monster.

In a way, they’re definitely right. He can’t die—why? Well, Pandora’s vaults has the answers, but Rhys has given up on vault hunting years and years and years ago- and he’ll always come back from anything that hurts him.

Unless he’s burnt to nothing but ashes. Rhys cannot come back from that. [That is how he lost his arm, after all.]

Yvette and Vaughn are still angry at him. He remembers going back to them after all the rumours begin circling around and Yvette is the one who grabs him and slams him against the wall and _yells._ “What the hell were you thinking!? You _provoked_ Handsome Jack? What if he killed you!? You’re so fucking lucky he let you live!” Yvette screams and Vaughn doesn’t say anything, but he glares at him and Rhys refuses to wither under his glare and under her screams.

“You could have died! Rhys, what the hell!? You don’t—you don’t just do that to someone like Handsome Jack! What the fuck were you thinking and saying things to him? You taunted him, you piece- Rhys!” she’s shaking before him, tears prickling at her eyes and Rhys looks away from her sad sight.

He doesn’t really listen to them after that because they keep lecturing him – Vaughn joins in eventually – and Rhys tries not to hum at it all. “C’mon guys, I’m still here, you know?” he’s looking at everything but them. “Besides, Jack said I’m too pathetic to be killed. Can you believe that? My hero called _me_ pathetic. I am going to cherish it forever.”

Vaughn lets out an embarrassed, frustrated groan and Yvette just shakes with her hands clenching in tight fists. She pulls him into her arms eventually, and Rhys wants to kiss her. He wants to pepper her neck with kisses and worship the very ground she walks on.

Not as badly as he does with Jack, but he definitely wants to kiss Yvette and make her feel better. She doesn’t like him, and Rhys smiles at her dreamily when she isn’t looking because his heart grows and grows in fondness for her.

She’s going to die so soon someday, overly ambitious and as cunning as a snake, and Rhys smiles at her still.

But it’s been a week now, and Rhys has yet to hear from Handsome Jack. Maybe he has forgotten about Rhys, or maybe he’s just being too impatient thinking about all the things Jack can do to him—all the things that Yvette will never do to him, nor Vaughn for that matter.

Neither of his friends will hurt him, but he’s hoping – praying, every minute and second – that Jack will. Eventually. He dreams of being skinned; he dreams of being gutted. He dreams and dreams of so many damn things, but Rhys can’t do anything like that to himself. The most he can do is bleed himself out in the bathtub when he knows Vaughn is going to be away for hours and get to enjoy it as best he can before he passes out.

Today is no different day from the usual. Vasquez antagonises him, Vaughn worries over him and Yvette looks at him with a small, worried smile that makes Rhys’s heart burst. He deals with all the work that has been shoved onto him as best he can—reports upon reports that need to be given out, reports that he doesn’t even need to write, but here he is—and he nearly cheers when his work is done.

He stands up, flips both his middle fingers up at Vasquez’s back, and heads to the elevator on Helios with slow steps and shadows under his burning, itching eyes. He calls in the lift, waits anxiously for it to finally come down and take him home so that he can live through another day in his life, and he furrows his brow when his floor button doesn’t light up.

Instead he notices...!

His stomach twists and turns, his food threatening to pour out of Rhys’s mouth and he doesn’t think he can puke with the knot that has formed in his throat when he notices the big H button glowing ominously over him.

 _‘Jack didn’t forget.’_ Rhys thinks deliriously and he laughs when he’s taken away to Jack’s office floor at an awful speed—it makes his world spin and the nausea grows worse, and all he can think about is _Jack didn’t forget._

His secretary isn’t there when he gets up there.

It’s overwhelmingly bright, and Rhys glows in the light that washes over him and he strides over to Jack’s office. Rhys thinks that if he can die – forever, without the ashes thing – then this will definitely be more terrifying than it is. The doors slide open, letting Rhys in, and the stark contrast of the light and the darkness within is whiplash-inducing.

Blues and purples hang low in the office, making even bronze look like the purest blue that Rhys has ever had the chance of seeing. The soft sounds of water echo throughout the office, giving it more serenity than it has any right having when at the very end – sitting on his golden throne, a king bewitched by his own fleeting glory – is Jack, grinning like a maniac.

“Sir?” Rhys says as Jack beckons him closer with his hand, silence a welcoming noose around his throat when the man on the other end says nothing. He moves in a hurry, footfalls echoing too loudly in the office, and Rhys thinks that his choice of giving up being a vault hunter has definitely been a good one. He steps up to Jack, nervous joy tingling at the very pits of his stomach, flipping over and over on itself.

Jack hums, and the illusion – whatever it may be – is broken. “So, kiddo,” Jack says, grin spreading far too wide on his faux-masked face, “you can’t die, huh?”

“At all, sir.” Rhys inhales and his eyes widen. “I’ll always come back. I promise.” Jack gets up then, fingers gliding on the table with a grace that he normally lacks [because Jack is an asshole, more a child in adult’s clothing than anything else, but even he has his moments Rhys supposes] as he gets closer to him.

He tilts Rhys’s head back and strokes over his neck, humming. “Hurts?”

“No, sir.”

“See, I wanna tell you to call me Jack, but this is plenty doin’ it for me babe. Keep at it with the sir, got me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Sir.”

An infuriating glint appears in Jack’s eyes. “Good. Now, we’re gonna start this off easy—start what off easy, I see you think in that pretty thick skull of yours? Simple, Rhysie! I’m going to _keep you._ You are _never_ going to go back, do you hear me?” Rhys swallows audibly, or so it roars that way in his ears. “You’re _mine._ You are an insolent, undying _thing and I want to know more.”_

“I want to _pick you apart._ But we’re going to start off easy.” Jack steps away from Rhys then and presses his hands against his throat to silence him when a sarcastic response starts to rise up. “Atatata- stay quiet. No talking. Daddy’s _busy._ ” He hisses out. Rhys huffs and yells out when he gets thrown down the stairs.

“None of that insolence, Rhys.” Jack chastises playfully, but he doesn’t come down after Rhys. “See, we’re gonna start with something… easy. Simple. We’re gonna start out with our company favourite—guns!”

He watches as Jack digistructs a pistol – one of the company’s ‘epic’ lineups, Rhys recognises – and he shoves himself back so that he can sit up and stare up at him. His eyes fall, briefly, to Jack’s feet and he laments the fact that the man _isn’t_ wearing boots or heels, before he looks back up at him. He trembles when Jack kneels before him and opens his mouth obediently when the gun presses against his lips.

All things considering, the pistol is more similar in make to one of the more common ones (maybe Jack has had it made specifically for this scenario?) and it slides in with ease, pressing against the back of his head and Rhys stares up at Jack curiously.

Then the man squeezes the trigger.

He can feel every _minute_ detail as the bullet blows out the back of his head, and tears gather at his eyes when he feels the growing sting of acid gnawing around his skull. Faint ringing drags on in his ears and Rhys chokes and gags around the gun in his mouth, bile threatening to rise up from the surprising amount of pain he feels.

But despite it, there’s a growing _arousal_ at the pits of his stomach that Rhys can’t deny—how can he? This is what he wants. The pistol slides out of his mouth but he can’t bring himself to close his jaw and Rhys’s head tips forward, body still trying to catch up to what has happened.

There is no immediate grinding or regrowth, not like with his snapped neck, and Rhys breathes in and out heavily to try and gather his wits—even though a portion of his brain is definitely on the floor, and trying to do anything has become _exceedingly difficult._

He heaves and gurgles on vomit and saliva, before he manages to finally swallow it all down. With a great degree of difficulty, his eyes roll up to stare at Jack – a _laughing_ Jack, now that his hearing has considerably cleared up after the initial shock. “Holy _shit_ kiddo!” Jack’s voice is heavy with glee and he steps around Rhys to inspect the hole that the bullet has left behind, being gnawed at by the corrosive acid still, and the laughter becomes more manic and high-pitched.

Rhys isn’t given a chance to recover from it – Jack presses the gun against his shoulder, the left one, and he squeezes the trigger once more and he lets out a gurgling cry at the pain that bursts alongside the wound. Acid eats at his clothes, his flesh, and Rhys’s eyes roll up into his skull and his chest heaves. “Ya like it, buddy?” Jack purrs, and Rhys gives a shaky, saliva-wet smile and nods. “Good boy.”

Jack’s free hand settles on Rhys’s thigh and forces him to spread his legs and he does so sluggishly, his body heavy and dull with the sweet pain that blossoms. Humming, Jack seems pleased with the way Rhys looks and he grabs at his left hand, intertwines their fingers almost sweetly and his heart hammers in his chest. He lifts hand up then, fingers still linked, and presses the barrel of the gun against his palm and blows a hole in it.

The acid burns away at him, makes the wound even _bigger_ and Rhys’s body quivers with the pain that he has never been able to inflict on himself before. He has never had the opportunity nor the time – and it’s only with Hyperion that Rhys has come to give up any reason as to why he needs to stop getting hurt – and he wants to cry with the absolute _bliss_ it brings.

“We’re gonna go easier tomorrow,” Jack says then, his voice and words a bit too difficult to understand, and Rhys chokes in response. “We’re gonna cut you; test your boundaries a bit more. This? This is me just blowing off some steam.”

He lets go of Rhys’s hand and presses the barrel of the pistol against his neck, drags it up to underneath his jaw, and he tilts his head back for Jack. “Don’t want too much of your brain on my floor.” Jack says as he moves the pistol away and looks Rhys over, as though wondering _where_ to shoot next.

The barrel presses against the vague area of where his right kidney is and Jack grins up at Rhys as he squeezes the trigger again. An incomprehensible cry leaves Rhys’s lips, mouth moving in an attempt to say _something_ but all his attempts sound wrong. Saliva drips down his chin, his neck, and he’s breathing horribly quickly as the acid actually – actually _eats_ at his kidney. His head swims – he’s losing so much blood like this, and Rhys thinks he’s going to pass out, he knows he is. Rhys is already close to his pain –

Jack swipes his hand over his digistruct device again, bringing out a bottle, and Rhys can’t even ask what it is and shrieks instead when he pours it onto the wound on his kidney. The strong smell hits his nose first and his stomach flips, far too painfully, when Rhys realises Jack is pouring _vinegar_ on him.

He grabs at Rhys’s left hand and presses it down onto the floor, tips the bottle over, and he wishes that he can thrash against Jack as more of the vinegar is poured onto his palm and everything _burns and burns and burns._

Without even thinking about it, his right hand lands on his crotch and he rubs at himself, sobbing and Jack crows. “You’re hard!” he hears Jack say and every part of Rhys’s body goes completely stiff when he drags the barrel of the pistol over his covered erection. “Calm down, cupcake; I ain’t shooting you _here._ Where’s the fun in _that?”_

Jack leans back then, the bottle of vinegar being swirled in his hand, and he drops the pistol so that he can rip off the final bit of clothing around Rhys’s injured shoulder. He tilts the bottle over and pours the remaining content of the vinegar over his aching, hurt shoulder and Rhys can’t even scream this time. He lets out pathetic, wet whimpers and chokes on his own saliva, his entire body throbbing with the agonizing torture of pain and pleasure that run through him.

His vision is going dark. Jack seems to take notice of his swaying and tsks, almost as though he is disappointed. “Thought you coulda handled more than that, kiddo.” He throws the bottle away and grabs at the pistol again, presses the hot, smoking barrel in between his eyes, and smiles. “I changed my mind ‘bout your brain bits on my floor.”

With the final explosion of pain in his head, Rhys’s eyes close and he limply falls back as Jack takes the shot. His body twitches and clenches up, over and over, before Rhys finally loses consciousness and bleeds on Jack’s office floor.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Rhys self-harms, very briefly, in this one - near the end - and his tongue also falls out. There isn't actually much torture in this one; it's just a chill chapter, until the next one comes around, just something to breathe and relax over or whatever.
> 
> Still! I hope you like it.

When Rhys wakes up, he doesn’t know where he is. All his wounds have healed up – the scars are sure to follow, definitely, and then he’ll be pale and clean as clean can be – and Rhys looks down at his hands. Surprisingly, his cybernetic is still attached and recharged, and he decides not to question it too much as he flexes it and moves his fingers slowly.

Reality takes its time dawning on him, takes its time making it known what is going on, and he eventually realises that he’s in a surprisingly well-lit room. It’s bare, all things considering, and only has a bed, a closet, and a full length mirror. He turns to face the mirror, and his eyes fall on some sort of shock collar that is snugly clinging to his neck.

 

_Ah._

 

Jack probably has him stored away somewhere, like a toy that he wants to keep safe or a pointless antique that he won’t let break. (Funnily enough, an antique is a very _apt_ way to describe what Rhys is, what Rhys feels he is, and he wonders that if – in another world, where Jack is more stable and himself not the way he is now – he someday may have a chance with…)

Fittingly enough, he’s naked—though he’s not sure why. He looks down at the bed and sees no blood on it, nothing, and Rhys tilts his head to the side and stares at the clean mattress and sheets for a long, long while before he finally slides off of the bed and stands up.

The floor is cold beneath his bare feet, and he wraps his arms around himself and sinks his shoulders, eyes focusing on the uncarpeted floor.

A part of him wishes that he can have the liberty to choose what he wants ‘his’ room to look like (how does he know he doesn’t have the ability to choose already? Because it’s Handsome Jack, of course), but then decides that it’s best to leave those sort of thoughts for someone who cares.

Someone like Yvette, or Vaughn; but, they’re all Hyperion, so what may seem like caring to him may just be a flimsy thread. Though, it’s not good to doubt the people he has known for years… but it’s not like he can help himself.

At Hyperion, you learn really quickly that no one is capable of being trustworthy. The only thing that can be trusted in Hyperion is the manipulative poison that runs in everyone’s veins, and Jack’s brutality…

It’s what endears him to Hyperion in the first place, with Jack’s violence being the second thing that endears him here. He runs his fingers over his skin, thinks back to yesterday [or maybe it’s a week ago; sometimes these things take _time_ ], and he breathes shakily and exhales a laugh.

Handsome Jack hurt him. Handsome Jack actually hurt him. He’s so _happy_ his heart is going to _fucking burst_ in his chest, and Rhys doesn’t know what to do about it—

Other than not die, of course. Someone like Handsome Jack probably envies him; as much as Jack _boasts_ that he lives forever, Rhys is sure that the man is painfully aware of his own mortality.

Something very twisted coils in his stomach, cruel and snakelike, and the satisfaction makes his stomach _churn_ until he thinks he needs to vomit. He looks around and catches sight of a small door – leading away to the bathroom, probably – and he makes his way over to it and, surprise, it has a toilet.

He lunges for it and curls over it, hacking up and gagging something glowing green and volatile, acidic, and it burns his throat, mouth, and lips as it comes up and out and blood drips and falls alongside the corrosive vomit.

It continues to eat at his insides, more residual than actual acid in his body, and Rhys keeps his mouth open as his tongue eventually falls out and into the toilet and he furrows his brow.

To be fair, he tells himself, he hasn’t ever actually _killed_ himself with a corrosive gun before so maybe dying to corrosive acid and dealing with wounds while alive is horribly, horribly different. Still, staring at his tongue surrounded by glowing puke and dark blood isn’t that appealing, so he reaches up and flushes the toilet and his organ away with it.

Already he can feel his body trying to fix up all the damage that the remaining acid has done to his body, healing up whatever painful sores or more that is caused by it all. He wonders where Jack is, wonders what his captor is doing, and Rhys shakily gets up and wipes his mouth clean, even as he has to quickly drop the tissue in the toilet and flush it again.

Maybe Jack doesn’t want to do anything with him today. He’s probably going to get fed soon, or so he hopes, because dying from starvation isn’t fun and Jack is probably smart enough to realise that no food equals no energy for fun reactions.

 

And that man _loves_ his fun little reactions, doesn’t he?

 

While his body works, desperately, on bringing his tongue back and getting rid of his injuries, Rhys decides to rummage around for something that’ll help him hurt himself, something that’ll help tide over the desire for pain – addicting now, where pleasure itself fails and something primal in him demands more – until Jack comes and takes him away for another torture session.

He manages to find a knife hidden away somewhere, a pathetically small one that isn’t as sharp as he wants, and he makes his way to the bathtub to begin his ritual.

Funny.

He may no longer live with Vaughn but he still has to hurt himself just to feel good. This time, though, he doesn’t have to worry about Vaughn figuring out and learning that he can’t die, and he doesn’t have to deal with all the drama that follows.

Rhys digs the knife into his human arm, below his elbow crease, and lets it sink in as deep as it can before he drags it down and hurts himself, like he used to back with Vaughn.

 

 

He misses Vaughn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always contact me on tumblr [here.](http://www.starrelia.tumblr.com) If you're able to donate [$3 or more], then I really appreciate it!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Ear gore, shooting, knife violence, gun violence, blood, implied skullfucking [only once and near the very end]
> 
> I'm really angry.

When Jack comes to get him again, Rhys realises that he isn’t really given any mercy. He wakes up to the sound of Jack shooting at the ceiling – the sound like and deafening to Rhys’s ears – and he isn’t even given a chance to get off of the bed as he storms over to him, grabs him by the hair and yanks him and throws him onto the floor.

Hair is ripped out of his head and Rhys tumbles and lands painfully on the floor, hands struggling to keep him up, and when he tries to look up he has to shriek when Jack shoots him in the arm. He’s grabbed by the hair again and Jack drags him away, the pain numbing out all sensations but the horrific burning in his arm and it doesn’t take Rhys long to realise that Jack has shot him with a fire pistol.

His body scrapes painfully against the floor and Jack effortlessly lifts him up and throws him into a room and he throws the gun into the direction of a corner. It slides away, noisy as it crashes and even noisier as it skids away when Jack kicks it, and Rhys grits his teeth when he’s grabbed by the jaw and lifted up. Jack is eerily silent and something twists in Rhys’s gut, becoming only worse when a maniacal grin spreads on the masked face.

“Good mooooorning kiddo, daddy’s here.” Jack whispers, voice dripping with venom and Rhys stays quiet, much to Jack’s pleasure. “Good! The little bitch learned what today’s rule is; no speaking! No talking! Only thing your mouth can do is scream and react to the pain, capiche? I won’t listen to any requests, noooothing babe.”

Rhys nods, and Jack rewards him by reaching over to a table and grabbing a very sharp knife. When he opens his mouth to ask, he immediately shuts it hard and feels his teeth clacking against each other painfully and Jack laughs, amused. He lifts Rhys up by the chin, the knife pressing against the underside of his jaw and he shoves it in without any teasing or faffing about.

No, Jack merely shoves it in as much as he can and Rhys’s eyes widen comically at the sensation of the sharp blade slipping in with terrific ease. His heart starts to pound rapidly as Jack drags the knife down his throat, cutting him easily and Rhys wants to gasp, wants to react _somehow,_ but the pain robs him of the choice and he can only let his mouth fall open ever so slightly at what Jack is doing.

“Oh, right, I don’t feel like talking today sooooo…” he slams Rhys down onto his side, the knife ripping through him as he does so and he gurgles in response to Jack’s action. The bloody knife is pressed against his right ear then, and Rhys can only choke on nothing as Jack starts to saw his ear off.

Tears gather in his eyes and pain burns through him, his chest rising and falling rapidly and Rhys is heaving – he’s heaving in pain as Jack slowly, excruciatingly so, starts to saw his right ear off. It’s a _slow_ and painful process, even with how wonderfully sharp the knife is, and Rhys shuts his eyes tight. Jack is humming, and his ability to hear through his right ear is getting worse as it finally – _finally ­_ – is completely off.

He’s rolled over onto his other side the moment Jack flicks the ear away and Rhys can’t help but gurgle in pain from the pressure on his missing ear. He swallows down the bile that rises; a shaky smile on his face and tears streaming down the side of his face as Jack goes to cutting his left ear. It’s the same process, the same pain and awful burning that spreads; he twitches on the floor, barely, and his throat constricts and feels raw. He _thinks_ he’s sobbing, but he’s not too sure as his hearing becomes absolutely _pathetic_ with both ears gone.

His body isn’t even bound, yet he feels restrained beneath… _nothing._ What is holding him down here, pathetic and shaking? The need to hurt himself? The need to be hurt by someone else, have someone else control him?

What a laugh. So long ago, he used to be in control of himself and used to be able to do whatever he wants to do as a vault hunter blessed by the vault of the eternal, having killed everyone that he hunted with just to get the treasure because he is _greedy_ and _despicable._

But now, here he is; at the hands of something whose _neck_ he can snap easily, at the hands of a pathetic little _wannabe king_ that he can’t help but admire and adore like a disgusting lover.

 

 

[ _‘You’d looked wonderful in a dress, darling.’_ Rhys thinks with a smile, even as Jack yanks him up and drags the knife down his cheek and slices it open. ]

 

Jack says something, but he can barely hear him—his words are muffled, barely filtered and his brain can’t register it. It’s not like he can really focus, anyway; Jack’s rolling him onto his back, his hair soaking in blood now and Rhys squeaks when Jack digs the knife into his chest.

He shoves it in deep and painful, wriggling it around like a child playing with a toy, and Rhys absolutely _giggles_ in joy. He doesn’t even care that Jack is lifting his hand up, pressing the knife under his skin and doing his best to peel his palm off.

There’s a smile on Rhys’s face, his vision blurring with tears and he’s unable to see anything but the blob that is Jack, and he thinks he sees a grin on his face. Imagines the grin—because he can’t really see a damn thing like this. What a mistake, what a mistake Rhys has made. What a—

His hands are bleeding and Jack digs the knife into his abdomen, carves him open like a pumpkin, and Rhys just takes it. The pain just melts in with the pain already present, his arm burning and he breathes slowly and tries not to choke on his own bile.

The blood smells too strong, adding only to his nausea and he can’t see—he really can’t see—

Jack leaves for a moment, leaving Rhys with bleeding palms, open abdomen and no ears, and comes back to wipe his tears away so that he can see the gun in his hands. Before Rhys can really react, his eye is shot out and he shrieks—or he thinks he does.

He ends up _finally_ dying because of that, yet before he does he feels something fleshy slide into his mangled and shot eye and doesn’t have time to wonder what it is.

 

And just like that, he’s gone.

 

But only for a few hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider hopping [onto my blog](http://www.starrelia.tumblr.com) and donating if you can.


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